“Who are you?” demanded Hornblower, and then repeated the question in Spanish.
The boat had ceased its struggles and was lying on its oars, rising and falling on the swell.
“Lieutenant Perez of the First Regiment of Infantry of the Army of Greater Colombia.”
Greater Colombia. That was what Bolivar called the republic he was trying to establish by his rebellion against Spain.
“Where is Mr Ramsbottom?”
“The Admiral has been on shore for the last week.”
“The Admiral?”
“Don Carlos Ramsbottom y Santona, Admiral of the Navy of Greater Colombia.” An Admiral; no less.
“What were you doing on board that ship?”
“I was taking care of her until Your Excellency came.”
“Is there nobody on board, then?”
“Nobody.”
The boats soared up a swell and sank down again. It was a sickly thing to do, not conducive to logical thought. He had been prepared to arrest Ramsbottom, but it would be another matter to arrest a lieutenant of infantry, in territorial waters.
“Where is the crew of the ship?”
“On shore with the Admiral. With the army.”
Fighting for Bolivar, presumably. And presumably as artillerymen serving the stolen guns.
“Very well. You may go.”
It was sufficient to make sure of the Bride of Abydos; there was no purpose in laying hands on men of Bolivar’s army who had only been obeying the orders of their superiors.
“Lay me alongside the brig.”
In the fading light the deck of the Bride of Abydos was not in too great disorder. The departing crew had apparently left everything shipshape, and the caretaking party of South American soldiers had not disturbed anything – although below deck it would probably be a different story. But what would have happened if a gale had blown up in this perilous anchorage on a lee shore would not bear thinking about. Presumably Ramsbottom had not cared what happened to his little ship once he had brought off his coup.
“Ahoy! Ahoy!”
Someone was hailing through a speaking trumpet from the other ship. Hornblower took the speaking trumpet from its becket by the wheel and hailed back.
“I am Admiral Lord Hornblower of His Britannic Majesty’s Service. I am coming aboard.”
It was almost dark when he mounted to the deck of the Helmond, to be welcomed by the light of a couple of lanterns. The captain who greeted him was a thick-set man speaking excellent English with a marked accent, Dutch, presumably.
“You have not arrived too soon, sir,” was his uncompromising beginning, not the way to address any officer of the Royal Navy, certainly not an Admiral and a Peer.
“I’ll thank you to be civil,” snapped Hornblower, his temper frayed.
Two angry men faced each other in the wavering light, and then the Dutchman realised that it would be better to restrain his ill-temper in dealing with someone who, after all, had the power on this lonely coast to enforce any orders he might issue.
“Please come below, sir,” he said. “Perhaps a glass of Schnapps – ?”
It was a comfortable, well-furnished cabin in which Hornblower was offered a seat and a glass.
“I was glad when I saw your topsails, sir,” said the Dutch captain. “For ten days I have been through misery. My ship – my cargo – this shore -”
The disjointed words conveyed the anxieties of finding himself in the hands of the insurgents, and of being compelled to anchor off a lee shore with an armed guard on board.
“What happened?” asked Hornblower.
“That damned little brig fired a shot across my bows with Bonaire still in sight. They boarded me when I hove-to. Put an armed party on board. I thought she was one of yours, a ship-of-war. They brought me here and anchored, and the army came out to us. That was when I knew she was not a ship-of-war, not British.
“Then they took your cargo?”
“They did. Twelve nine-pounder field guns, with limbers and caissons and horse harness. One ammunition waggon. One repair cart with tools. Two thousand rounds of ammunition. One ton of gunpowder in kegs. Everything.” The Dutchman was obviously quoting verbatim from his bill of lading.
“How did they get it ashore?”